


In From the Rain

by yellow_craion



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Brotherly Love, Dwalin Feels, Dwalin Is A Softie, Dwalin misses his brother, Dwarves In Exile, Dwarves in the Shire, Dyslexia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Hobbit Children, Hurt/Comfort, POV Dwalin, Past Violence, Poor Dwalin, Size Difference, dwarves are demi, in every sense of the word, only referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26462797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_craion/pseuds/yellow_craion
Summary: Dwalin travels back to the Blue Mountains, cold, wet and miserable, when he is faced with an unexpected kindness.Bilbo takes in a dwarf trope, basicallyWarnings for reference / implied violence, prostitution and i suppose extortion but all in the past
Relationships: Balin & Dwalin (Tolkien), Bilbo Baggins & Dwalin
Comments: 24
Kudos: 183





	In From the Rain

Dwalin curses the weather; it's been pouring for the better part of the past two days and he's been trudging through the mud for most of that time.

He made a point of not sleeping in the rain, and it made sense to him at the time, to push himself to keep moving to retain some warmth and only rest briefly. It's starting to affect him; he's stumbling more, his legs heavy like lead and it seems whatever warmth he tried to preserve, has long left his body. The rain may be over, for now, but with not a single dry patch as far as the eye can see, it makes very little difference. Sleeping now wouldn’t be that much of an improvement to sleeping in the rain.

He pulls the worn out cloak tighter around himself, to keep the wind away. It doesn't, not anymore. Still, he keeps walking. One foot in front of the other, struggling against the urge to close his eyes.

That lack of attention costs him very soon, and he slips on wet leaves and barely manages to brace his fall with his hands. His pack rattles and he spots a few of his possessions landing on the grass in front of him. He snatches the bundle he knows has bread in it, trying to save it from soaking through and he scrambles forward gracelessly, desperately. His knees hurt from impact, more than he would normally expect, but then again, all his bones ache and his muscles are tense and he is so bloody tired. He shuts his eyes in frustration and is only glad nobody's there to see him. With a groan, he takes his pack off and shoves his scattered possessions inside, carefully covering them with already damp spare clothes, then stands up slowly, and pats himself off, mostly to get the dirt off - no way to get rid of the fresh dampness on his knees. He looks down and winces at his dirty scraped palms.

Camping on wet ground, with nothing even remotely dry enough to light a fire is something he normally avoids, but he has no strength to move any further. Best he can do is to find a clearing, so water wouldn't drip on him from all the trees. And just as he’s contemplating that, a cold droplet lands on the back of his skull and glides down into his hairline, causing a shudder to rack his body.

He skulks around irritably, looking for a place.

It's not a lot, but he finds a spot some way off the main road and drags himself there, folds up his bedding to get as many layers as he can on top of the ground before sitting down on it. He scowls; between cool wind, his drenched clothes and cold wet earth, the blankets provide little comfort.

He puts his axes off to the side, in easy reach, and digs through his pack to find a loaf of bread. It's thankfully mostly dry and he rips a chunk off and bites into it, before wrapping the rest carefully and hiding it away.

Dwalin worries he’s stayed too long in Bree, earning more insults for being a Dwarf than coins for his skill in the small smithy. He tried to stay as long as he could, to save as much as he could, but now he may not make it to the Blue Mountains before snow falls.

He prays his boots will last him the journey at least, the cobbler in Bree demanded his week's pay to fix them, and half his whole earnings for a new pair, and only part of that pricing could be attributed to his distaste for Dwarves.

This time around he was the only one there, and between the loneliness and the looks he got on a daily basis, he’s glad to leave the town behind. He misses his brother terribly, but it comforts him to think that among themselves, in the Mountain, Balin is well respected and doesn’t have to worry about baseless accusations and careless violence.

With a resigned sigh, Dwalin looks into the distance, trying to not think of all the times he’s been spat at in the past months.

He can see the hills of the Shire and he thinks maybe he should brave a shortcut through it, instead of going around like they usually do. Even a few days saved from the biting wind and threat of snow would be something, and maybe, just maybe, he could buy some food to bring to the Mountain. It may even be worth all the fearful glances and threats for him to hurry along, in the end.

It’s frigid out here in the open, but he can’t force his legs to move yet, so instead he hunches in on himself, making a poor job of resting. He dozes off, but every time he almost falls asleep, a shiver wakes him up and he's even colder than before, which really shouldn’t be possible anymore. The ever present chill has settled well into his very bones and he doubts he will ever get rid off. He puffs warm air into his cupped palms, struggling to curb his sour mood.

Anger won’t help him, it will only make him reckless.

Eventually, he staggers up with a grunt, feeling not at all rested, but too scared to stay still in the cold. However slow he may be, as long as he’s moving, he’s making progress.

\--

Few Dwarves ever ventured deep into the land of the Hobbits, as far as Dwalin knows. Now, he thinks he understands.

The convoluted system of roads winding round and round make it easy to get lost, but he tries to stay off the busiest spots, which in turn takes him through some of the fields and orchards. This time of year - never mind this wretched weather that’s still following him like a curse - they are mostly empty, but the scope of it all leaves him in awe.

Luckily, the rain hasn’t come back yet, but the world is still very wet and the dark clouds worry Dwalin with what is yet to come.

Keeping to back roads has saved him most of the staring, he is relieved to find, and what people he does pass, are either too busy to notice or comment on his presence, or throw him a curious - more confused that hateful - glance. At some point he thinks somebody greets him with a quiet ‘good day’ but soon he dismisses it, blaming the howling wind in his ears for making him hear things.

Three kids, playing around a puddle by the pebbled road, just ahead draw his attention unexpectedly.

Dwalin is momentarily frozen in place when they stop chattering and just watch him with their mouths open. He’s glad not to see open fear on their little chubby faces, but he tells himself not to put too much hope in that. Instead, he looks around nervously for the parents, or any adults, knowing all too well how an encounter like this could play out in a city of Men. To his astonishment, there doesn’t seem to be anyone else there. Since the children seem content to just watch him, he cautiously steps forward, coming off the road to keep some distance and go around them.

Fully expecting them to get back to whatever they were doing, he is surprised, when they follow him. They skip around him in circles, and he eyes them carefully. The children may mean well, but their innocent curiosity can very easily turn dangerous to a traveling Dwarf when the parents find such company undesirable to their kids.

“Mister?” One of them asks cheerfully, pointing to his axes: “aren’t those heavy?”

“They’re bigger than one my dad uses for chopping wood, Lily!” A boy adds, not waiting for Dwalin to answer. “They gotta be super heavy!”

“No, uh,” he tries to smile but he knows it comes out wrong. The Dwarf is frantically trying to come up with something to say to safely part ways without scaring the children. Last thing he needs is to be hunted down as a kidnapper.

One of the kids tugs on his soggy coat and he stops, looking down, startled.

“Mister, you should come inside before it rains again,” the first one tells him, the one called Lily.

He swallows, touched by the innocent concern and smiles down at the girl. He wonders if he should lie or tell them the truth, that he’s traveling and therefore has no ‘inside’ to go to. Well, a version of the truth at least.

“And you,” Dwalin asks instead. “Won’t your family worry you’re not back yet?”

_And blame a wandering Dwarf for anything that happens..._

They all shake their heads as one.

“I get easily dista… trackted… distackted!” She proclaims with a grin once she gets the word out, and Dwalin can’t help but smile. With an unexpected pang in his chest, it reminds him of his own struggles with words. “So mama says if I go too far, I am to go to the nearest smial and stay there, till it’s sunny again!”

Dwalin frowns at the peculiar word. “Just like that? You can come into anyone’s home?”

“Of course, silly!” she looks at him, scandalized that he doesn’t know that, and he lets out a pained sigh. “Just last week, Miss Bella Brandybuck took me in and I only met her once before, at my cousin’s birthday! It was a huge party! Mama baked my favorite strawberry cake, it was amazing!”

_It must be a great feeling_ , he thinks, _knowing that wherever you go, they will always take you in._

He clears his throat, doing his best not to dwell on the longing that’s clawing at his insides.

“I’m glad.” And he is. Even if he can’t remember ever having such confidence in the kindness of strangers, he is pleased these kids have it, and apparently it is not misplaced naivete either.

A thunder rolling across the sky makes them all look up suddenly.

“Better run along then,” he tells them, stepping away with a warm smile. “Don’t want to be caught in the storm.”

He doesn’t mention that he definitely will be caught in it himself. No point scaring the kids.

The children look at each other, then back up to the sky, before looking up at Dwalin again.

“Won’t you come with us, Mister?” The boy asks, tilting his head.

“Mister Baggins lives nearby,” Lily says, frowning and looking around, then skips along the road. “Come on!”

He’s staring. Surely, they don’t mean…

Before he has a chance to protest, the boys grab him by the hand each, and if that isn’t shocking enough, they pull him along, while the girl is skipping along in front, ready to lead the way to whoever Mister Baggins is.

And it’s not that he’s so exhausted that he can’t shake off a few kids, he could absolutely stomp off in the opposite direction and let them find their way. A part of him thinks that he should, if he hopes to find a secluded enough spot to hide in. But he just doesn’t have a heart to tell them no.

He can’t remember the last time a child - and not a Dwarven child, those are rare and he hasn’t even seen one in months now, since he’s been traveling anyway - came to him on their own. Unlike the kids in Bree, these aren’t scared of his weapons, or his tattoos, or his massive body; these haven't learned from their parents to throw stones at his head to send him away either.

Their small soft hands can barely wrap around two of his fingers, and yet they lead him along to a stranger’s house because they care about him staying out in the storm.

Selfishly, Dwalin allows himself to relish the warm fuzzy feeling growing in his chest he doesn’t get many opportunities to experience. He sniffs quietly, wondering if he’d be permitted to hug them goodbye later, expecting the answer to be a no, but still enjoying the brief fantasy.

As soon as he knows they are taken in, he will go on his way, and all he’ll have left will be a fond memory to keep him warm in the cold autumn rain, and that will be it.

“See? We’re here!” One of the kids exclaims, when they reach a low wooden gate.

The polished wooden fence, small steps up the path to the round green door, all surrounded by trimmed grass and potted flowers - all look a bit surreal, but so is the entire Shire, so it fits right in, he thinks.

They tug him further and Lily knocks on the door loudly.

He takes the opportunity as they are waiting, to take the last look at the kids, their messy curls and bare hairy feet, and… he notices the boys are still holding onto his hands, and he is overwhelmed by the impulse to pull them all close and wrap his arms around them. He doesn’t, though; instead he rubs his thumbs ever so gently over their tiny hands and in response, the boy on his left looks up and beams at him.

“Who do we have here, then?”

His attention snaps to the new Hobbit, as the children murmur their greetings.

“Lily, Togo and Merry! Hello,” the Hobbit looks from each child to finally, Dwalin himself. “And who might you be?” He seems in a good mood, but that’s understandable, if the story about kids being welcome anywhere in the Shire is true, he would be happy to welcome them. Still no reason to expect that grace would be extended to Dwalin.

At the last moment, he pulls his hands away from the boys, takes a step back, and braces for a scowl. “Dwalin,” he gives a minute bow, not looking away but other than curiosity, there’s nothing else visible on the Hobbit’s face. “At your service.”

“We found him!” Boy on the left says, while the other seems to just be staring at him with an open mouth again, after the introduction.

“We did!” Lily confirms, grinning at him.

That last comment makes the Hobbit chuckle, before he responds. “Oh, uh, Bilbo Baggins,” he stutters and bows down as well, awkwardly. “At yours.” He opens the round door wider and steps to the side, waving the free hand for them to follow. “Come in, come in. It looks like you are just in time, I fear it will be raining any moment now!”

The kids hop on inside happily, already asking if there are any sweets available, making the Hobbit laugh again. With a tight smile, Dwalin turns to go his separate way.

“Master Dwarf? Dwalin,” the Hobbit corrects himself with a shake of his head, but looks completely perplexed, once Dwalin turns towards him. “Where are you going?”

He’s not sure what Mister Baggins is asking, whether the Blue Mountains as the destination, or more immediate shelter for the night, but the silence seems to be enough of an answer, when the Hobbit waves him into his home.

“Come in! I insist,” he smiles at Dwalin’s frown. “Can’t very well let you out into this weather, can I? Please, come in,” he repeats.

The possibility of being invited inside so far out of his expectations, it takes a slow moment for his meaning to dawn on the Dwarf. It must be for the sake of the children, they were the ones who dragged him here after all. It irks him but he’s been cold and wet long enough to swallow his pride. Another thunder brightens up the sky and he decides to just accept. For now.

Later, once the kids are gone, he should ask after a barn or a shed for the night, assuming the host would be agreeable to let him stay at all.

He steps in, cautiously, and looks around the interior. Everything around him is a light shade of polished wood, very soft and cozy. Warmth envelops Dwalin as soon as the door is closed, and he breathes in, smelling a roast, and some baked goods all the way from the kitchen, which is making his insides twist with hunger. He scowls; he really didn’t need a reminder…

“You can leave your things here,” the Hobbit gestures to a coat rack and a shelf by the entrance. “Thank you so much for bringing Lily, Merry and Togo with you. I’d hate to think of them stuck in the storm. Make yourself comfortable, and join us in the sitting room once you’re ready. I shall make the tea in the meantime.”

Dwalin nods mutely, not bothering to point out that he was the one being brought here. Once alone in the hall, he hangs his still wet cloak up, but puts the pack back on, along with his weapons. Better safe than sorry; all he has is in that pack, and while it’s unlikely a Hobbit would be able to lift, much less use his axes, he’d rather not risk them being stolen either.

When he’s just about to follow the host further in, he looks at the clean polished floor thoughtfully, then at his muddy, worn out, wet boots and clenches his jaw. Least he can do to repay the kindness is not drag in the filth and add to the cleaning work later. However, he’s had these on for a week now, traveling, and at this point his bare feet may be more offensive to the Hobbits than dirty boots, so he settles on vigorously wiping them on the doormat and hopes for the best.

The pitter patter of rain grows louder by the minute and he is glad to have a roof over his head for a change.

Stepping as lightly as he is able - which is to say, not at all - he follows the voices into one of the rooms. The kids are sitting by the fireplace, in a circle around a plate stacked with buttered scones, passing a jar of jam and a spoon amongst each other and chattering about something they did earlier.

The armchairs are empty and it seems their host is elsewhere, so he busies himself looking at the picture frames lining the wall, while carefully avoiding stepping on the carpet.

Soon enough, Mister Baggins comes in, with a tray loaded with a teapot and a plate of...muffins? He can’t tell.

“Ah, good, good,” the Hobbit says when he spots him and deposits everything on the low table between the chairs. “Please, sit and help yourself to the meat pies. Just took them out of the oven a few hours ago. Hope they’re to your liking, Mister Dwalin,” he smiles and waits for him to move, but when nothing happens he asks: “Is there a problem?”

Dwalin scowls at the carpet. “I’m fine here,” he grunts out finally.

“Really?” He squeaks in surprise but quickly settles down. “I, uh, I see. Very well, just let me…” He goes to the cupboard, picks up five tea cups, and sets them by the teapot. Once there’s really nothing else to be done, he stands by the table, wringing his hands together in front of himself nervously, as if waiting for the Dwarf to do something.

Unlike his brother, Dwalin never cared much for ceremony, in any context. Now, in this unconventional setting, he’s drawing a blank as to what could be expected of him. He’s trying to come up with something, but all his thoughts only remind him of his inadequacy, when he’s thinking what his brother would do. Truth is, in situations like this he misses Balin especially, both for his soothing presence and the uncanny ability to smooth over any hurdles Dwalin himself may have created.

“Sit,” the Dwarf rumbles, and winces when it comes more like an order than suggestion and the small creature almost jumps in his spot. “No point in both of us standing,” he adds, slightly gentler.

Mister Baggins squirms. “That would hardly be proper for me to sit and leave a guest standing,” he tilts his head.

Ah.

“Can I pour you a cup, though?” He asks, almost hopefully, Dwalin thinks. “Tea is best while still hot, don’t you agree?”

Dwalin hums in agreement. Something hot to drink would be wonderful, even if the warmth of this place already chased some of the chill off Dwalin’s bones.

In a matter of moments, he is handed a cup of steaming tea, with a small pie perched on the saucer.

“Thank you,” he nods again, his voice a low rumble.

The Hobbit smiles up at him and stays near, clasping his hands behind his back. “A pleasure, Master Dwarf. Can I ask where you’re headed?”

“Blue Mountains,” he rasps between sips of his drink. The tea is strong, but sweetened with honey and it eases some of the tension inside him that he wasn’t even aware of. He then all but inhales the meat pie, its juicy interior melting in his mouth, and pulling a pleased sound out of his throat.

“Very good, that,” he admits, his face flushed at his own behavior. He gulps down the rest of his tea nervously.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Mister Baggings grins. “There’s plenty more.”

It is excruciating for Dwalin to watch him go back, about to pick more of the delicious meat pies; to be surrounded by the comfort and warmth and have good - oh, so damn good - food offered to him; and having to deny himself. At least out in the rain there was nothing to tempt him.

“No, no, uh,” he forces out, frustration bubbling up inside him. He could easily clean out the whole platter of these, but he has to be responsible. He’s learned it the hard way that kindness from strangers doesn’t come his way, not unless paid for, one way or another; he’s seen it happen countless times in different cities and settlements. On rare occasions when an inn would turn them away, and whatever local took a small group of them into their home, payment would always be demanded. Sometimes up front, sometimes after the fact - the latter usually worse on both their dignity and purses, but he can’t recall a single instance where that wasn’t the case.

The Hobbit hasn’t mentioned it yet; maybe for the sake of the children, maybe for the sake of whatever passes for proprietary in this place; no matter. Dwalin knows to expect it all the same. And he’s dreading the unspoken consequences of continuing as freely as he is now.

So he declines the offer. “Really, no need. Thank you, Master Baggins,” he says through clenched teeth when his insides twist in protest. He’s been saving that coin for his kin, and he takes comfort in that. They need it more than he needs those meat pies. Yes, he’s doing the right thing.

“Oh, I see,” the Hobbit’s face falls in disappointment, but Dwalin stays strong, no matter how awkward it becomes.

“The storm’s over!” Lily exclaims suddenly, cutting through the silence and only then does the Dwarf realize that, indeed, he cannot hear it anymore. One of the boys jumps up at that, and the others follow.

“Come on! There will be fresh puddles!” He runs up to Mister Baggins and wraps him in a quick hug, before barreling to the door with a “Goodbye, Mister Baggins! Goodbye, Mister Dwarf!”

“Wait for us,” the other boy yells, while grabbing one more scone for the road. “Thank you, Mister Baggings!” He says but instead of giving the hobbit a hug like the other one, he comes up to Dwalin and looks up at him. “Byebye, Mister,” he says and gently pats the Dwarf’s forearm, before running off and leaving Dwalin staring silently after him.

In the corner of his eye he sees the girl let go of their host and run up to him too, and he watches her uncertainly, waiting to see what she’ll do. She wraps her arms around his waist in a hug, but she lets go too fast for him to react.

“You’re wet!” Lily says with a strange expression, and a scrunched up nose, but then runs after her friends. “Bye!”

Mister Baggins shakes his head with a chuckle, peeking into the corridor, presumably to check that the door is properly closed.

Dwalin wonders if this is it, and now that they are alone the Hobbit will demand compensation, and either kick him out or try to squeeze more money out of him and offer a night long stay.

“Wait,” he frowns at the Dwarf and comes closer. “What did she mean wet? Why would you be…” He extends his hand slowly to verify for himself.

“I suppose I still am, a bit,” Dwalin shrugs. He’s not dripping wet, and he was careful not to step on the carpets or touch the furniture, so what does the Hobbit care suddenly?

“Gracious me!” Mister Baggins exclaims after patting the damp clothes here and there with growing horror. “Look at you, you are positively drenched! And me! Oh, my!” He’s muttering angrily now, “I was completely oblivious! A fine host, indeed,” he snorts, then collects himself and addresses Dwalin again: “I am so sorry, Mister Dwalin! I should have realized, come, come,” he motions for the Dwarf to follow and goes on ahead.

Dwalin scowls, fully expecting to be shown to the door, but instead he’s being led further down the corridor. Where could the little creature be taking him? Back door, just so neighbors don’t see?

“Ah, there we are!” They stop by the smaller door at the end of a long wide corridor. “Apologies for being so forward, but do you have any spare clothes, Mister Dwalin? I could lend you something, but I doubt anything I own would fit you.”

He glares down at him, disturbed by the question. Of all the things he expected... The little bugger wants to get him naked?!

“What?” He demands harshly. He’s heard enough over the years, but it’s always been Men in those stories. 

Dwalin has been lucky to not be faced with that choice himself, he’s assumed it’s because of his imposing figure that people are more likely to want to beat him than to bed him. Not this Hobbit, it would seem. Of course, he could be misreading the situation, but what other reason could there be to get him out of his clothes?

He’s never faulted any Dwarf for agreeing to it, he understands their position well enough, if anything, he often felt the urge to introduce his axe to one of those filthy Men. For them it’s just a novelty thrill, a night of fun to satiate their curiosity, and some, yes, take pleasure in humiliation when a Dwarf is in no position to refuse. But laying with a stranger had been virtually unheard of in Dwarven society. It’s not uncommon for spouses to not have such relations with each other, not for decades, if at all.

Mister Baggins blinks up at him, blankly, almost innocently. “It’s just, your clothes need to be properly dried, and it would be pointless to put them back on after you have a bath, that’s the only reason I ask, really,” he explains and opens the door, revealing a spacious bathroom.

Dwalin looks from the large copper tub, back to his host. Damn it all! He shuts his eyes and clenches his jaw. Why is this Hobbit so confusing?

“That’s, uh,” he thinks furiously what to say, “a nice offer, Mister Baggins. But I can’t accept.”

“Why not?”

With a sigh, the Dwarf admits the truth: “I don’t have the coin to spare for luxury,” with one last longing look at the tub he turns away. “Thank you for inviting me in, I appreciate not sitting in the storm, but just tell me what I owe you for the food and drink, and I shall be on my way.”

The Hobbit is gaping at him, openly. After a moment he starts sputtering and gesticulating but no coherent words come out, except “I would never!” and a “good gracious!”. The Dwarf is waiting, bracing but resolute in his decision.

“Are you trying to insult me, Master Dwarf?” He squints up at him.

Dwalin stiffens at the accusatory tone. “No,” he frowns. “I meant no offence.” Feeling lost, and frustrated, he adds in a low tone: “I just don’t like to beat around the bush like the others.”

Tense silence descends upon them, and he waits as the Hobbit is breathing in deeply, the frown not leaving his face. He opens his mouth, stops himself, squints some more and tries to say something again. “There is no need for payment,” he declares finally, with a nod.

The Dwarf starts at that.

“I don’t know how people do things elsewhere, Mister Dwalin, but I assure you it is not how we do them here. I expect never to hear such nonsense from you again,” he wiggles a finger at Dwalin, whose eyebrows go up higher and higher with every word he hears. “Now, like I said, we need to get you out of these wet clothes, and get them dry. Certainly a hot bath would help with the chill, my goodness, you must be freezing! Please leave your things in there for later, and once you’re done, join me in the kitchen. I shall prepare a room for you in the meantime.”

And with that, he spins on his heel and walks away at a brisk pace, leaving the perplexed Dwarf behind.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Mister Baggins throws over his shoulder without stopping, “I don’t think you’ll find any Orcs hiding in the cupboard. You can put the weapons away, you are quite safe here.”

Safe.

Dwalin isn’t convinced. He huffs out a frustrated breath.

He says no payment, and not to bring that up again, but it’s unusual and deep down, the Dwarf is worried it’s a trick; he knows how to handle insults and fists, but he feels helpless at the idea he’d be used as the butt of a cruel joke.

Does the Hobbit mean to steal from him? Other than the money he just offered, he has nothing that could be of any value to an outsider; some items that hold mostly sentimental value, and he can’t imagine the small creature lifting his axes.

The bath, however, does sound mighty inviting, and he intends to use it.

\--

Half submerged in the tub, Dwalin tries not to think too hard about the peculiar situation anymore, and instead to relax. With a deep sigh he focuses on the sensations - the warm water soaking away the tension from his tired muscles, and the soft fresh scents coming from the shelf next to him, where all the soaps and oils are stored. He took a less fragrant one for himself to use but he hasn’t got to that yet.

A soft knock at the door makes Dwalin curse and sit up violentry.

The water sloshes loudly and spills out onto the floor because of his sudden movement, but all his attention is on the door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” comes a soft voice from the other side. “I just wanted to tell you I put some clean _dry_ clothes out here for you to try, and if nothing else, a blanket. Please, take your time, Master Dwarf.”

Dwalin wipes a hand down his face, air going out of him in a relieved shudder. He sits staring down at his legs, waiting to calm down properly, then grabs the soap and lathers and scrubs himself clean with quick efficient motions.

He lets the murky water drain and towels himself in the meantime, considering the pile of his clothes; the outermost layers are still wet, not to mention dirty, and the spare clothes from his pack are also damp, after he used them to protect his food and other items. The underclothes he deems adequately dry, however walking around in nothing but his smallclothes is not something he wants to do.

No sounds come from the corridor, and so he wraps a large towel around his waist and peeks out, to check the clothes his host apparently left for him. It’s obvious at first glance that the clothes are nowhere near his size; he doesn’t even bother with the shirt, and the bathrobe may have wider sleeves but it barely covers his shoulders, and leaves everything exposed. He grumbles at his predicament, before picking up the blanket - it’s big and soft, and Dwalin could easily wrap himself in it.

Surely, he can’t wear it?

Out of options, he shrugs and takes the blanket back into the bathroom and shuts the door. He decides to leave his wet gear for later, muddy boots included, and dresses in smallclothes, just so he has something he can move freely in and not worry about falling off him. Then he makes a few attempts to fold and tie the blanket over his shoulders, aiming to make it efficient - so it covers as much as possible, but also allows some range of motions. With a final look down at himself he sighs, feeling rather ridiculous, but resigned that this is really as good as it’s going to get.

That leaves his weapons and the pack. For now, he leaves the axes propped against the wall, careful so they leave no marks on the wood.

Under no circumstances is he willing to leave his pack unattended though. He stores inside the few daggers that are usually hidden on him while he travels and heads out to find the Hobbit.

Following the faint noises to an open door, he finds him in a bedroom, poking at a burning log pile in the fireplace. He clears his throat.

“Oh, I see none of the clothes were big enough,” Mister Baggings shrugs when Dwalin only gives a curt nod in response, and gestures to the room at large. “Will this do for the night, Mister Dwalin? I just changed the sheets, and if you’d like I can bring in more blankets.”

With a frown, the Dwarf takes in the room. Much like the rest of the interior, it’s a mix of wood and soft thick fabrics that make it feel cozy. He’d be willing to camp on the floor by the fireplace if it was offered, it would be dry and warm at the very least, but his gaze lands on the bed. To someone who hasn’t slept for the past two days and before that, only on the cold hard ground, this is the height of luxury. Still, Dwalin reins in his enthusiasm; wary of a cruel surprise and disappointment.

“I can stay here?” The question comes out more breathless than he intended.

“Of course,” he nods, putting his hands on his hips, as if silently challenging Dwalin to refuse his hospitality. “The fire should get going while we have dinner, I think. Come, come,” the Hobbit goes around him and leads him away from the room.

Before he follows, the Dwarf takes one more look at the soft bed and closes the door, just to keep the warmth of the fire from escaping. Then he hurries along to where his host is patiently waiting and they enter the large kitchen together.

In his long life, Dwalin has seen plenty of kitchens, and in a sense, they all look the same; save for size and style. Some things are always to be expected. This one, however, takes him by surprise.

A platter of the meat pies from earlier sits on the table, next to it an impressive roasted ham, and more of the scones he saw the children eating. On the many clean working spaces he finds treats left out openly - a bowl of apples here, a bowl of nuts there, a loaf of bread covered with a cloth, another roast presumably cooling on the little rack by the oven; a jar of cookies on one of the many shelves.

It’s not that he’s never encountered those things before, but he hasn’t seen them so casually displayed in one place since his youth. The kitchen isn’t cluttered, and everything feels in its place - not that he would know what a Hobbit kitchen usually looks like, but it doesn’t come off as forced opulence for the guest’s benefit.

The Dwarf wonders what makes him think that, but either way he very much likes this space, possibly even better than the bedroom he’s been offered. At the same time, it serves as a stark reminder of all the things his people have been lacking in exile and for that, an old and bitter part of him hates it just as strongly.

“Please, take a seat,” the Hobbit gestures to one of the chairs and puts two plates down, along with cutlery and teacups on the opposite sides of the table. “It’s not much, I wasn’t expecting any company for supper, but you’re welcome to anything you like here. Or I can make something else, if you have a request, Mister Dwalin.”

Stepping awkwardly he obeys, feeling not any less silly for sitting at a table wrapped in a blanket than he was walking around in it, but he nods and listens to his host talk. A request! Ha!

“No, that’s,” he stammers, when he’s faced with an expectant silence. “No need.”

“As you like. Oh! And I made you ginger tea, just to stave off any cold,” he keeps chatting happily, and pours Dwalin a cup, then sets it next to his bare tattooed arm. “It’s with lemon and honey, best drink it while still hot.”

Dwalin mutters a thank you, but hesitates to do anything other than eye the meat pies. If he focuses enough, he can almost taste it still in his mouth; the soft meat and the salty crust. Eventually he lifts the tea to his lips, before he embarrasses himself even more.

“I meant what I said, Master Dwarf.”

Dwalin looks up at the stern tone, only to find a soft expression.

“I shall not demand anything from you now, or later. Other than that you eat when you’re hungry and get a good night sleep before you continue your travels.” The Hobbit gestures to the meat pies with a knowing smile. “Help yourself.”

So he does. He drops three onto his plate and forces himself to eat slow, just to savor the taste and remember it longer.

He’s still wary, but there’s enough hope and longing in him to make him actually want to believe the kind words. And if he excuses himself for the night earlier than he normally would and locks himself in the bedroom with his weapons propped against the night table, carefully spreading his spare clothes around the fireplace, and balances a chair against the closed door as a precaution, the Hobbit doesn’t have to know. Indeed, he only would, if he tried to sneak up on Dwalin during the night.

\--

He wakes, cocooned in blankets and stretches with a sleepy groan. It’s a surprise to realize it’s no longer dark - a scary surprise that jolts him upright, because he can’t afford to be careless - and it dawns on him then. The previous day.

Dwalin scans the room, but everything is as he left it before going to bed - the chair is still propped up, the clothes are spread out, and his weapons are in easy reach; the only difference is the dead fireplace and sunshine coming in through the curtains.

The brightness of the light suggests the sun must be high up already and he feels guilty for dallying. He hurries through dressing in his own clothes and goes through his possessions carefully, sort of repacking and sort of checking everything is accounted for.

Of course his boots are nowhere to be found and he smacks himself in the face. He forgot his things in the bathroom. He meant to dry them along the spare ones he’s wearing now, but there’s no chance of that now that they’ve spent the night in a stinking wet heap on the floor. He scowls just thinking about that, but there’s no helping it now, he will have to put them on top of his pack and hope the sunshine will hold.

He opens the door and runs to the bathroom, but takes a moment to marvel at the delicious aroma that comes from the kitchen, wondering at the profession of his host, because surely people would pay good money for something that smells this good. And by last evening, Dwalin knows it also tastes as good.

In the bathroom, he finds his clothes all hung over the tub, looking strangely cleaner than he remembers them to be. Mahal’s balls, did the Hobbit wash his clothes? He comes close, gingerly grabbing at random sleeves or whatever else he finds in reach. They all are dry. He gathers them all in his arms to pack them, with a strange mix of emotions.

Still, his boots are missing.

It is a weird thing to take, when all the Hobbits go about barefoot, and considering their interactions so far, the Dwarf doesn’t think it’s likely they’ve been stolen. It’s possible that a full stomach and uninterrupted night of sleep mellowed him out, but it makes no sense to steal them for someone who just washed his stinking gear.

It’s a foreign feeling, he muses. Not having to worry. Dangerous.

After packing, he ventures outside the bedroom again.

As it happens, he finds his boots in the sitting room, perched by the softly flickering fire. It takes the Dwarf shamefully long to recognize his cloak hanging just above from the mantle, close, but safe distance away from the flames.

He swallows thickly. Oh, it’s going to be bliss to put them on, warmed up like so by the fireplace.

Naturally, his host is in the kitchen, sitting at the same place as he did last night and sipping something from a mug, his eyes closed and shoulders relaxed. Impossibly, he’s surrounded by even more food than there was the day before.

It’s indecent how Dwalin’s stomach rumbles at the sight of the roasted chicken and some golden brown buns, when he had such a great meal before bed. It should have been enough, he chides himself. It would have been, on the road, where there’s no choice but to ration provisions carefully.

“Mister Baggins,” the Dwarf says from the doorway, partly to announce his presence, partly still coming up with the words to properly thank him and say goodbye.

“Oh! Hello, hello!” The Hobbit grins at him over the rim of the mug and waves him in. “Hope the clothes are dry by now,” he says, looking him up and down. “Did you sleep well, Mister Dwalin?”

“I did,” he offers a crooked smile, because he can’t remember last time he slept so well. He stands by the table, just behind the chair he sat on the previous evening. “I should… that is,” Dwalin looks down at the smooth wood, envious of his brother’s skill with words. He wishes he could express his gratitude in a way the Hobbit deserves; short of that, he offers him the truth.

“I didn’t believe... yesterday, when you refused payment. I, uh, no, please,” he motions for the Hobbit to stay in place when he sees him starting to protest. “Let me say my piece, I want to explain.”

“Go on,” he nods and goes silent. Waiting.

Dwalin presses his lips in a thin line. “I mean no offense. It’s not… it just doesn’t happen. You took me in and gave me food and a bed. You even washed my rags! You didn’t… It matters. Right? It matters to me,” he stresses, clutching at the backrest of the chair self-consciously. “And I wanted to thank you for all that before I go.”

“It’s quite alright, Mister Dwalin.” He says with a strangely soft expression. “No need to thank me, it was no hardship. Though I appreciate it.”

Dwalin nods tightly.

“But tell me, where are you going? You haven’t had breakfast yet!”

What?

“I suppose,” the Hobbit hums thoughtfully, “if you really wish to hurry I could pack more for the road, but I admit I was hoping for a meal together.” He gives him an expectant look.

“I didn’t want to bother, after last night’s supper, I mean,” The Dwarf stammers.

“Hardly a bother!” He waves him off absently. “I did cook these with your travel in mind,” he points in a vague direction where a huge bowl of something that looks like crusted dumplings is standing, and Dwalin’s confusion must be showing because he explains: “They are the meat pies you seem to favor, just more compact, so they are more manageable if you eat them on the road, you see.”

“All of them?” Dwalin asks, stumped.

“Well,” Mister Baggins chuckles. “Most of them, at the very least. I can’t eat them myself,” he shrugs. “I could, but I’d have to store them and all that, but why do that when you are here? Unless you mean variation?” He taps his chin, ignoring the incredulous expression on the Dwarf’s face. “I suppose I could pack the chicken with some bread, but I’m afraid I don’t have much travel ready food...”

Let it not be said that Dwarves don’t learn from their experiences. And so far, the experience with this Hobbit seems to be that it’s most prudent to accept the food and hospitality without protest.

“Master Baggins, stop,” Dwalin rumbles. “All I meant was, there’s a lot of them, that’s all. But if you’re willing to part with them, I will accept whatever amount you give.”

“Marvelous!” He beams. “Will you indulge me and stay for breakfast too? I’d hate to keep you if you’re in a rush.”

“Aye,” he agrees, a warm feeling settling in his chest. “I’ll stay for breakfast.”

Days later, when he’s resting for the night, and digging through his supplies in front of a small fire, among the meat pies Dwalin will find a linen baggie tied with a string, and inside an unexpected batch of cookies with crushed nuts and seeds in them, and he’ll be reminded of the parting words from one Hobbit:

“Safe travels, Mister Dwalin. And if you or your kin ever find yourself in the area, feel free to visit.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a little warm up writing exercise but it ran away from me a bit


End file.
